“As American as motherhood and apple pie” is a simile meant to represent things Americans consider sacrosanct. In recent years, the very act of becoming a mother has given birth to an impassioned national conversation. No, I’m not going there, but I was there in 1974. You may not agree with my decision, but it was my decision to make.
To begin, I had to do some serious doing to become a mother. In the early 1970s, there wasn’t an entire body of science devoted to conceiving, carrying, delivering and raising children. Consequently, after years of trying, my first husband and I worried we might be destined to join the ranks of childless couples.
We considered our options. Some friends had adopted. It wasn’t going well, and R.J. was dead set against it. I decided to put my faith in God and not give up hope. I found a special kind of mother love in my happy place — school. Throwing myself into bringing the light of learning to teenagers, I fondly called my students “my kids.” If I had to settle for that, so be it.
Despite the upside of that approach, I never stopped yearning for children of my own. Then I heard about Dr. Mark Harris, an Appleton gynecologist/obstetrician, a rising star in the nascent field of female fertility. At my first appointment, he said we’d begin with R.J. taking the mandatory male test. He passed with flying colors.
My turn. Six months of tracking cycles and thermometer readings, all of which confirmed something I already knew — my cycle was highly irregular. My mom’s had been too. My seven siblings and I are proof that fluctuation in ovulation is not necessarily related to failure to conceive. Whatever, I felt like a failure anyway.
At our next consultation, Dr. Harris pronounced me healthy except for carrying around some unneeded adipose tissue (fat). He suggested losing weight; it sometimes worked miracles. I couldn’t see how that mattered, but I shed 15 pounds in three months. I felt great, yet no miracle baby showed up to reward me for my efforts.
Time for a painful procedure using dye and X-rays to check my Fallopian tubes. I had it on a Friday morning and went back to work. The doctor never mentioned bleeding. I called to ask if that was normal. The nurse said it wasn’t abnormal but to call on Monday if it didn’t stop. It didn’t, so they squeezed me in. Everything was fine until Dr. Harris said he was ordering a pregnancy test. Say what? Shock turned to dismay when he said results could take six weeks.
Five weeks later, with no sign of a period (which I attributed to stress), Dr. Harris’s nurse called. He wanted to see me ASAP. Could I be there in an hour? I rushed over. When he walked into the examination room, his mood did not match his news. The pregnancy test was positive.
“It’s a miracle,” I cried. “Losing weight worked. Oh, thank you for getting me pregnant.”
He smiled wryly at my ill-chosen comment; then his face turned dark. He didn’t even try to sugarcoat it.
A friend at Berkeley was researching the effects of radiation on pregnant women who survived Hiroshima. The longer a woman had been pregnant, the better the chances of survival for the baby. Very early embryos had traumatic birth defects, many born without a brain stem, or no hands or feet.
I was frantic. When was my baby conceived? I had stopped charting so I had no idea. To be on the safe side, he suggested abortion, which had become legal a year earlier. I said I could not make that decision alone; I had to talk to my husband. Neither of us slept that night. We cried and prayed and held each other. We’d waited so long for this baby. We finally agreed that if God took our child, we could live with that, but not if we did the taking.
So, we didn’t choose abortion, but the thing is, we had a choice. If our baby was born with disabilities, we could accept that because it was our choice. Turns out it was the right one. She was perfect — my miracle baby. God gave her to me to watch her grow into the woman I wish I was. Her younger brother arrived with less fanfare but is just as precious; a giant of a man with a gentle spirit and huge heart who has taught me that patience is indeed a virtue. I can’t imagine life without them.
Now, my beautiful daughter is a mother herself. My granddaughter is the light of my life. My story begins and ends with faith, hope and love. Life is all about choices. Choose well, and happy Mother’s Day.
Kathleen Marsh is a lifelong educator, writer and community advocate. She has published eight books, four on the history of Townsend, where she and husband Jon are happily retired on the beautiful Townsend Flowage.
